


The Heat of Heaven

by estelraca



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 15:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8584096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: When a liaison with another rebel cell goes wrong, Courfeyrac and Feuilly end up wet, cold, and sporting mild injuries.  That's all right, though.  They've got each other, a fireplace, and a blanket, and that's really all they need.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onlyacoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyacoffee/gifts).



_The Heat of Heaven_

 

“This way!” Feuilly hisses out the words, knowing that Courfeyrac will hear and follow, hoping that their pursuers won't.

Courfeyrac doesn't respond in words, but Feuilly can hear the sound of boots against the paving stones, so he trusts he's being followed.

The baying of a dog splits through the night, sharp and clear. A _hunting_ dog, one that's found the scent it was set on—one that's far too close behind them for Feuilly's comfort. He hisses out a curse. “Don't they know it's _illegal_ for the police to use dogs?”

Courfeyrac gives a strained laugh. “Just means... we've got them... scared.”

Feuilly doesn't bite back with any sharp retort. He _hopes_ that they're scared. They _should_ be scared. The people are tired of incompetence and oppression, and if 1830 is the year that frustration and misery finally boils over into change, so be it.

But first Feuilly would like to avoid getting mauled by some overzealous gendarmes pet. There are a few safe houses he's been aiming for, but if they don't lose the dog's scent, there will be no point in going to ground. He isn't going to risk one of his fellow workers unless there's absolutely no other choice.

“We're going to take a quick dip in the river.” Feuilly adjusts his course accordingly.

“That seems... woefully ill-advised.” Courfeyrac gasps out the words, sounding like he's in pain, but when Feuilly looks back his friend is still following closely, dark clothes making him just another shadow in the night.

“Best way to lose the dog. That or the sewers.” Feuilly turns down another narrow alley. “Would that be your preference?”

“I fear there's... little difference, depending on... the area of the Seine. But I...” Courfeyrac pauses, panting for a few steps before he continues on. Perhaps they'll have to work on their running skills, assuming both of them survive this and aren't in prison for the next good bit. “Trust to your judgment.”

“As I trust to yours, when the tables are turned.” Feuilly continues to lead them in silence, the dog's baying drawing closer and closer. They pass a handful of people, but no one seems inclined to get involved, either to assist them or to stop them.

When they reach the river's edge, Feuilly doesn't stop. He stays as close to shore as he dares, attempting to keep his feet under him, but the more they can dilute their scent with the messy confluence that is Paris, the more likely they are to slide out of this mess unscathed. Turning back to Courfeyrac, he frowns. “Can you swim?”

Courfeyrac looks across the river. “If need be, I... can do anything.”

“There's an area where it's easy to get out on the other bank in perhaps fifty yards, and a safe house I can take us to from there.”

A breeze slides across the river, and Feuilly's teeth begin chattering together instantly. Winter is over, but the water is still frigid, and sometimes at night the land, too, forgets what the proper season is.

No time for hesitating, though. They need to move, and move quickly. Especially because both Joly and Combeferre will likely have a fit if they hear that he and Courfeyrac were in the water for too terribly long.

Feuilly finds his footing on the opposite bank easily, hauling himself towards safety.

When he turns around to find Courfeyrac, he sees his friend paddling doggedly and drifting further and further downstream. If he continues, he'll miss the easy egress here. Pushing back into the current, Feuilly reaches out to snag Courfeyrac's arm, hauling him to shore.

Courfeyrac cries out when Feuilly's hand closes around his upper right arm, but he continues to swim valiantly, and before another minute has passed they're both up on the opposite bank.

Feuilly looks down at his hand, his palm and fingers stained by something thicker than water and black in the moonlight.

“Nothing... too serious.” Courfeyrac tries to smile, though the effect is somewhat ruined by his shivering and the chattering of his teeth. “Once we... get back to the others, Combeferre... or Joly... will have it sewn up in moments.”

Feuilly doesn't bother cursing. There's no point to it, and right now there are more important things to do. Sliding his arm around Courfeyrac's shoulders, he begins guiding his friend towards what will hopefully be safety and a chance to properly assess the damage.

Courfeyrac's walking speed deteriorates the further they go, his gait becoming ungainly. Feuilly adapts to the situation, providing Courfeyrac what support he can and singing a rowdy drinking song to give a different excuse for their unsteady course.

Their disguise is assisted by Courfeyrac starting to giggle madly and attempting a terrible descant to the song after only thirty seconds or so have passed, and Feuilly hopes that it's cleverness and not blood loss or cold causing the actions.

As they approach their destination, Feuilly stops singing.

Courfeyrac, sadly, doesn't.

“Courfeyrac.” Feuilly hisses out the man's name. “That's enough. Let's be quiet now.”

“But it was... a good idea.” Courfeyrac blinks. “Distract people. Don't let them know... who we are.”

Feuilly winces. Though there doesn't appear to be anyone out and about, you never know when the walls have ears, and though this neighborhood tends toward Republican sympathies, one never knows when the wrong person will note the wrong thing. “We're getting close, so we should be quiet. Besides, you sing like an aristocrat.”

“Ah, my friend!” Courfeyrac peers at Feuilly with wide, injured eyes. “There's no need to wound me so. I think that bit far more deeply than the shot.”

Feuilly can't help but smile. “I don't say it to insult you, merely to point out a fact. And there would not be many aristocrats around here, so you'll draw attention... ah, here we are.”

The small room is one of several that has been carved out of a larger house. It has a door that opens onto the street, though, and the neighbors can be counted on to turn a blind eye or even assist in sending anyone asking too many uncomfortable questions astray.

Feuilly raps on the door before inserting his key into the lock and turning it. He can't see any sign of candles or fire inside, but it's late, and he doesn't want to surprise anyone. Pushing open the door, he calls for his worker friends who typically call this place home. “Serafin! Aniol!”

No one answers, and the air inside the little room is perhaps a little bit colder than the air outside. Feuilly is starting to shiver badly himself, and as soon as he's swept his eyes over the room and guaranteed that no one is lurking in the shadows he hauls himself and Courfeyrac inside.

The room has been arranged simply. There is a bed, large enough for at least two adults and which has been used, Feuilly knows, to accommodate up to four. There is a wooden chair and table set. There is a chest in which spare clothes and blankets are kept. And there is the fireplace, hearth dark.

Is that _frost_ on the hearth? If it is, the universe is mocking him, and Feuilly scowls at it as he helps Courfeyrac to one of the chairs and settles him down.

“Clothes off... f-first.” Feuilly's fingers are clumsy and slow as he begins tugging at Courfeyrac's outfit. “Both for w-warmth, and to s-see what damage has been d-done.”

“Agreed-d.” Courfeyrac sits up just as bit. It's not much assistance, but compared to his dead-fish pose earlier, it's appreciated. “I c-can... do this. You... undress y-yourself.”

“Oh?” Feuilly pauses, leaning back to see exactly how coordinated an effort Courfeyrac can manage. The room is woefully dark, their forms more outlines than actual shapes despite his night-adjusted eyes. He will need to find one of the lanterns and light it.

So much to do, so little dexterity with which to do it, and a friend bleeding in front of him.

There's no room for panic. He can feel the first frissons rising up, questioning if perhaps they should just have stayed and allowed the gendarmes to arrest them—if he's made things worse rather than better by coming here.

The revolution will be coming. It will be coming _soon_. Enjolras has said as much, too, agreeing with Feuilly's own gut instincts and reading of the populace. And though he _will_ weather it out in jail, if need be, Feuilly and Courfeyrac will both do more good free to assist the Amis.

Combeferre would be tending to Courfeyrac's wound first, as would Joly, the doctors called to heal injuries even in the worst of circumstances. (He has seen them treat injuries after riots, in safe-houses ranging from the pleasant to the downright desolate.)

They are able to turn first to their work because others provide light and heat—Enjolras typically being one of the first to attend to the practical matters, though he is also often quick to make some comment about light blooming again in the darkness as he does, or the heat of human determination rising even in the most frigid and oppressive climes.

Thoughts of their commander cause him to smile, and Feuilly rubs his hands together, trying to bring enough circulation that he'll be able to strike a fire. Courfeyrac, though moving slowly and favoring his right arm, is managing to undress himself.

Shrugging out of his own coat, vest, and undershirt, Feuilly drapes the clothing haphazardly over another chair. He will arrange them more carefully to dry later, but right now the damp fabric is worse than nothing.

Courfeyrac gives what is probably an attempt at an approving whistle. “Very n-nice.”

“You can't actually tell.” Feuilly smiles anyway. If Courfeyrac is conscious enough to make quips, that can only be a good thing. “It's too dark.”

“I can t-tell some. You have a very h-handsome silhouette.” Courfeyrac has levered himself back to his feet, is working on the buttons on his shirt with grim determination. “And I apologize, this isn't how h-hasty I would normally be about... these things. N-normally I try... to savor the experience.”

“Courfeyrac. You are, as ever, incorrigible.” Feuilly shakes his head, and after giving his fingers one more vicious chafing moves to the hearth. It _is_ lightly frosted, but someone has arranged a fire in the fireplace anyway. Reaching for the fire-striker, Feuilly finds his hand coming in contact with a strange glass bottle. “What on earth...”

“Oh!” Courfeyrac has divested himself of all but his trousers, and he wanders over to Feuilly's side to peer down at the bottle Feuilly is turning over in his hands. “I t-think I know that. It's a bottle that explodes into f-fire when you break it.”

Feuilly arches an eyebrow, remembering belatedly that the expression will be hard to see.

Courfeyrac's hand comes to rest on Feuilly's shoulder, Courfeyrac's weight settling heavily against him. “It has a p-paper in it. And a vacuum. I don't r-remember all that well. Combeferre and some of his f-friends made a whole b-bunch. Were very... p-proud...”

“Sit before you fall.” Feuilly guides Courfeyrac down to sit next to him, and his friend almost immediately rests his head against Feuilly's arm. “There we go. How does it work again?”

“Break the b-bottle.” Courfeyrac mimes smashing the glass. “The p-paper catches fire. Not as e-easy as those L-lucifers the English m-make, but f-fun. I l-liked it when Combeferre let me t-try.”

Feuilly debates allowing Courfeyrac the joy of starting the fire, but is uncertain the man will be able to have the coordination. “All right, then. Let's see how this goes.”

Gripping the bottle tight, Feuilly smashes it against the side of the fireplace. Fire immediately blooms inside the glass that he's holding, a pure-white light that quickly settles into a calmer shade. Trying not to either burn himself or lose the fire—though in the light he can see the usual fire-striker hiding behind where the bottle had been—Feuilly guides the flame to the kindling. A little bit of blowing, and the fire has begun to take shape appropriately, casting light around the room.

In that light Feuilly can see how pale Courfeyrac is, how blue his lips and eyelids have turned. Can see the trails of watery blood down his right arm from a deep furrow along his triceps—he has been spending too much time with Combeferre, to know that is what the muscles are called. As he lifts his own hand, Feuilly can see that the nails are blue, the skin shrunken and pallid.

Courfeyrac looks down at Feuilly's hand and gives a shaky laugh. “We're a little b-bit... of a mess right now.”

“Just for right now.” Feuilly speaks calmly, turning Courfeyrac so that he can see the man's injury better. Warmth, beautiful and blessed, is just starting to radiate from the little fire. "You stay by the fire. Let me grab bandage material and a blanket.”

“W-water, if we can. Or at least r-rags.” Courfeyrac smiles, tipping his head back to watch Feuilly as Feuilly rises. “Joly will k-kill us if we bandage without c-cleaning.”

“He would indeed.” Feuilly smiles, heading for the trunk that contains the small room's belongings. Bandages are buried beneath everything else, where they will be out of the way and not attract attention; blankets are on top. Once he's acquired both, he returns to Courfeyrac's side.

Courfeyrac is curled in front of the fire, his knees to his chest, his right arm cradled with his left, shivering violently. As unpleasant as it likely feels, though, the shivering is good. It means his body still has strength.

Settling down on Courfeyrac's right side, Feuilly gently takes his arm and rotates it so that the firelight falls on the injury. Sucking on his bottom lip, Feuilly prods gently at the edges. They aren't bleeding much, but cold tends to slow bleeding, so that may change as the temperature in the room climbs. “This should probably be stitched. It isn't so deep that I think it needs such immediately, though, and one of our two doctors will surely be glad to care for it tomorrow.”

“A very... a-acceptable solution.” Courfeyrac continues to shiver violently, though Feuilly can feel the muscles in his right arm tensing, trying to keep him still.

Working swiftly, Feuilly cleans the wound as best he can, watching Courfeyrac's pale face, wanting to ensure if Courfeyrac faints at the ministrations that Feuilly will be able to catch him and keep him from striking the hearthstones with his head. Courfeyrac maintains consciousness, though, cursing low under his breath in a barely-comprehensible mish-mash of languages.

“I am very impressed.” Feuilly ties the bandage off, attempting to make it tight enough to slow bleeding as circulation improves but not so tight it will cause the limb beneath the bandage to swell. (He has too much experience with bandaging wounds now, from his worker friends and his revolutionary friends. He will likely have much more in the next few months.) “You've clearly been paying attention to cursing in many languages.”

Courfeyrac smiles, though the expression wavers somewhat. “I-it's a very useful s-skill.”

“Indeed.” Feuilly shakes out the blanket. “Now that's done, let's get both of us warm. If I don't get some warmth soon, I think my balls are going to fall right off.”

That earns an honest laugh from Courfeyrac, who lays his head against Feuilly's shoulder as Feuilly drapes the blanket around them both. “I w-wouldn't have expected that from y-you. G-Grantaire or B-Bossuet or J-Joly, b-but not—”

A blush rises to Feuilly's face, but perhaps it won't be noticeable in the flickering firelight. Normally he wouldn't be so vulgar. Not that he doesn't hear talk like that often enough, again from both sets of friends as well as the considerable overlap between them, but it's not usually _his_ forte. He had thought it would make Courfeyrac laugh, though, and right now anything that brings good cheer and the accompanying warmth with it is welcome.

Pulling the blanket tighter around them, Feuilly puts his arm around Courefyrac's shoulders, edging them both closer to the fire. Though Feuilly is still cold, he isn't nearly as frigid as Courfeyrac is, and Courfeyrac's shivering is far worse. “Come now. I think every man has had that fear at least once when he's sufficiently cold.”

“They d-do feel rather exp-posed.” Courfeyrac presses closer to Feuilly, and then pulls away. “F-Feuilly, I don't mean this to be r-rude, but... if we're going to d-do this, could you take off your t-trousers?”

The blush returns full-force, and Feuilly opens his mouth to stutter out a reply.

“Just because they're wet. And c-cold.” Is that a blush on Courfeyrac's face? Well, that is something Feuilly wasn't expecting to see. “N-no other reason.”

Slipping out of the already-warming cocoon, Feuilly finishes divesting himself of his wet clothes. When he slides back beneath the blanket, he raises one eyebrow. “More acceptable?”

Courfeyrac presses close against him again and sighs. “V-very. T-thank you.”

“Just focus on getting warm now.” Feuilly chafes a hand along Courfeyrac's side. “Everything else can wait until morning.”

Courfeyrac nods his head, his eyes heavy-lidded as he rests once more against Feuilly's shoulder. “So w-who's house are we b-borrowing?”

“It's the house of some workers I know. They're involved with another revolutionary cell. This is one of their safe-houses.” Feuilly's eyes dart around the empty room again. “I'm not sure where they are. When they aren't present themselves, usually _someone's_ here. Someone recovering from an injury, or who needs a place to lie low for a bit...”

Silence lies between them for several seconds, and Courfeyrac straightens a bit. “Do you t-think they were found out? I-imprisoned?”

“I hope not. Though if anyone is going to be, at least they don't have family dependent on them...” Feuilly shakes his head. “Everything has been very busy lately. Groups contacting groups, making allegiances and exchanges. Likely they're just involved in that. I won't assume the worst until I've reason to do so.”

“Wise, as usual.” Courfeyrac smiles, his shivering finally starting to subside. “I'm glad you knew of this place.”

“Me, too.” Feuilly gives a hesitant smile of his own. “I would not have liked to be out in the cold for much longer.”

“We would have made it.” Sitting up straighter causes Courfeyrac's face to pale, and he once more rests his head against Feuilly's shoulder. “Do you think they're friends with students, too? Given the bottled fire?”

“Likely.” Feuilly pulls Courfeyrac tight against him, trying to provide warmth and comfort. He also surreptitiously feels the bandage, but it isn't terribly wet. “There's a lot of shared belief between students and workers.”

“And really, if _you_ could give your friends fire in a bottle...” Courfeyrac trails off with a chuckle. “I was half expecting Combeferre to give me some as a Yule gift.”

“And were terribly disappointed when he didn't?”

“Oh, never. There are plenty of other opportunities for me to create fire, and what he _did_ give me was lovely.” Courfeyrac yawns, and Feuilly can feel his body finally starting to relax.

“Perhaps he felt you already had enough internal fire to provide flame for you.” Feuilly smiles at his friend.

“Perhaps. Though if I have internal fire, it's because of those I am surrounded by.” Courfeyrac's eyes are serious if sleep-clouded as he turns his head to face Feuilly. “Thank you. For all your assistance tonight.”

“We went out together for a reason.” Feuilly's voice is gruffer than he intends, and he finds himself clearing his throat and turning away. “The more of us there are working together, the safer and more likely to succeed everything is.”

“Spoken like a true Republican as well as a very practical man.” Courfeyrac isn't shivering at all anymore, but he doesn't move away from Feuilly. “Except you're not terribly practical. You're terribly idealistic. Or both. Perhaps you and Enjolras are special because you manage to be both.”

“I think you're tired and starting to ramble.” Feuilly strokes a hand across Courfeyrac's hair, surreptitiously checking his bandage again. Still not much seepage. This is likely just normal exhaustion, then—the same kind that Feuilly can feel pulling at his own eyelids now that the excitement and fear of the rest of the night has faded.

“That's all right. Tired rambling frequently leads to good stories. Like the time Combeferre started giving a lecture on the rights of moths instead of the rights of man. Or the time Joly and Combeferre started out arguing about a surgical procedure and then somehow ended up discussing a book Combeferre hadn't read.” Courfeyrac gives a soft chuckle. “Which of course he rectified as soon as possible. Tried to rectify that evening, but I convinced him he wasn't capable of translating English—even Latin and Greek speckled English—when he had almost set his hair on fire with the candle.”

“Let's not be setting anyone on fire.” Feuilly maneuvers them a little further away from the fire.

“People should only burn with metaphorical light. Which they're very good at doing.” Courfeyrac moves when Feuilly does, not fighting or complaining in the least. “Like you. And Enjolras. And all our friends, really. We all have our own fire. Our own heat. Heaven's heat, maybe. The strength of angels that's needed to make right a broken world.”

“Courfeyrac—”

“I know. I'm rambling. I'm tired and my arm hurts and I think my insides are still frozen.” Courfeyrac sits up a little bit straighter, facing Feuilly with earnest eyes. “And I will apologize if I've given offense. I'm just very grateful to be sharing your fire right now.”

“I could say the same. _Do_ say the same.” Feuilly arranges the blanket a bit tighter around both their shoulders. “But I also say we need to rest. So once you think you're no longer frozen, let's put our clothes out to dry and grab a bit of sleep.”

Courfeyrac turns from Feuilly to the fire and back to Feuilly before giving a decisive nod. “That sounds perfectly acceptable.”

They spend another quarter or half an hour soaking in the warmth of the fire, letting it permeate the room. Then Feuilly gathers up their wet clothes, arranging them across the table and chairs to dry. He finds clean, dry undergarments in the chest, warms them in front of the fire for a few minutes, and then goads a half-asleep Courfeyrac into dressing.

Once they're both dressed, he banks the fire, draws Courfeyrac to his feet, and ensconces them both in the bed, huddled together under their warm blanket and all the others Feuilly could find.

“Feuilly?” Courfeyrac's voice is sleep-slurred, his eyes closed.

Feuilly makes a tired noise of inquiry in response.

“Heaven's heat has very cold toes.”

Feuilly considers using his pillow to cover Courfeyrac's face, but he likes it better where it is. “Also a very cold nose, which you are burying painfully against my shoulder.”

“Ah. Sorry.” Courfeyrac shifts just a little bit away.

Feuilly pulls him back close, and Courfeyrac settles down with a sigh.

“Sleep well, Feuilly.” The words are barely comprehensible.

“You too, Courfeyrac.” Feuilly closes his eyes. “You too.”

* * *

They're woken early the next morning by Aniol entering the house. He brings with him a frigid wind and bread that they're able to split for breakfast, so Feuilly can't be too upset.

“There was a great deal of trouble last night.” Aniol chews and swallows a piece of bread before shaking his head. “Cracking down on anyone they suspect might be 'instigating insurrection'. Some of the people they targeted were actually involved; others weren't. Gonna take us a few days to figure out who's all right, who's compromised... see if we can win any sympathy from those incorrectly harassed.”

Feuilly nods. “The Amis will be happy to help where we can.”

“Most certainly.” Despite having seeped blood through his bandages overnight, Courfeyrac seems just as cheerful as usual as they split their sparse early breakfast. “We'll need to be getting back to them before there's too much concern.”

“Indeed.” Feuilly swallows the last of his bread. “And we need to get that arm properly cared for. Thank you for letting us make use of the room even in your absence.”

“I would be a poor friend to wish you a night on the street when I can be of assistance.” Aniol rises when they do, offering Courfeyrac a handshake and pulling Feuilly into an unexpected hug. “Take care of yourself, my friend.”

“Same to you.” Feuilly claps Aniol on the shoulder before shrugging into his still-damp jacket and hat.

They find the others in the back room of the Musain, Enjolras with a map spread on the table before him while Combeferre and Bossuet flip through newspapers and Joly carefully opens correspondence. Bahorel and Jehan are conspicuously absent, and Feuilly feels his chest tighten with worry.

“Courfeyrac!” Combeferre drops his papers. “Feuilly. How fared things last night?”

Enjolras also abandons his maps to come and touch them, ensuring they are in one piece. “We heard one of your contacts was arrested, that there had been shots fired.”

Courfeyrac waves his left hand. “It just provided a bit of adventure for us. We ended up taking shelter in this small room where there were—”

“Adventure that resulted in Courfeyrac being injured.” Feuilly cuts in before Courfeyrac can pursue the digression. “Joly, Combeferre, if one of you would do the honors—it's his right arm that was grazed by a bullet.”

While the doctors set to their work, Feuilly follows Enjolras back to the map. He pitches his voice low, even though it appears to be only lieutenants present at the moment. “Bahorel and Prouvaire?”

“There was fighting last night.” The hint of a smile toys across Enjolras' mouth. “If I assure you that Bahorel is alive and in one piece, where would you assume he is?”

Feuilly sighs. “Again?”

Enjolras nods. “Apparently he quite bravely sacrificed his own freedom so that some less-stalwart law students could get away.”

“Or perhaps students who actually wish to attend class.” Feuilly smiles and gives his head a small shake. “I assume Jehan is dealing with him?”

“Jehan hopes that with a bit of poetry, stubbornness, funds, and good wine he'll be able to win Bahorel's early freedom. Apparently they have plans to see an opera in four days, and Prouvaire will be most put out if Bahorel manages to miss the affair.” Enjolras' expression becomes more bemused as he discusses the poet's supposed reasons for wishing to free their friend.

“I'm glad he's the only one of our people to run into significant trouble.” Feuilly looks down at the map, at the markings that Enjolras has been making. “Do you think this is it? Do you think the moment's come?”

Enjolras studies the map for almost a full minute before giving his head a tiny shake. “I don't think so. Soon, but not quite yet. There's not enough pressure yet. Not enough heat from below to force change at the top.”

Feuilly's hands clench into fists, and he stares down at them, forcing them to relax.

Enjolras' eyes don't move from the map as he reaches out and places a hand gently atop Feuilly's. “It will come. Within a few months, I think. And we will be ready when it does.”

“Yes.” Feuilly smiles at his commander, turning a moment later to watch Courfeyrac's convivial complaints as the doctors continue their ministrations. “Yes, we shall be.”

* * *

They won.

They won and yet somehow they managed to lose, and Feuilly still doesn't understand how. Oh, he understands the logistics of it. Understands that those in power despise giving it up, and if they can get away with mild concessions—with exchanging one king for another, with gently shaking up the elite—then that is what they will do.

But he had thought, perhaps, this would be different. Had thought that with the people rising up so strongly, surely they would be able to effect real and lasting change.

They haven't given up. They will never give up. And they all survived, which was never guaranteed and which Feuilly is incredibly grateful for.

But he still feels... _cold_. It isn't a physical cold. The night is too warm for that, summer still in full swing despite autumn lurking nearby. It is a jagged, numb, painful place in his gut where hope and joy had burnt bright during the Three Glorious Days, and he doesn't know how to fill it.

“Here you are.” Courfeyrac's voice is as cheerful as ever—as cheerful as it was when they fought side by side atop a barricade, or pushed forward to claim more territory for the revolution.

“Here I am.” Feuilly stands. The night is very old, and there are few people about. Feuilly had borrowed a chair and deposited himself outside the cafe, needing a few moments to think and calm himself before returning to assist Enjolras and Combeferre in drafting a list of grievances with the new constitution. The new _monarchy_ , and how long will it be before it is just like the old? “Apologies if someone was looking for me. I just needed a bit of fresh air.”

“I can imagine. We all need air fresher than what's currently available in Paris, I think.” Courfeyrac hasn't brought a chair, but he gestures for Feuilly to remain seated. “No need to rise on my account.”

“As you like.” Feuilly settles back into his seat. “Are you well?”

“Well as any of us are. Just wanted to take a moment and look up.” Courfeyrac does just that, moving to stand behind Feuilly's chair.

Feuilly follows his gaze, but there isn't much to see aside from the streetlights and some low-hanging clouds that bounce the city's light back down. “What was it you were hoping to—”

A coat drapes itself over his shoulders, and arms wrap around him a moment later. Courfeyrac's voice is a low whisper in his ear. “Stars. Heaven's heat and light. But the brightest and warmest of those are right here with me.”

“Courfeyrac...” Feuilly raises his right hand to touch Courfeyrac's arm, and finds himself hanging on with all his strength.

“Do you remember this spring, when we had our little adventure?” Courfeyrac's head rests against Feuilly's. “I was rambling in exhaustion, but what I said was true. I have been blessed by many friends, but the Amis are special. _You're_ special. And what's happened... we're not going to let this be where it ends.”

“No. We won't.” Feuilly's other hand rises, clasping tight to Courfeyrac as well. “But I think you're wrong. I think _you're_ the one with all the heat.”

“Perhaps that's why I like fire so much. Like calls to like.” Courfeyrac doesn't move, despite the hunched and awkward position he must be standing in. “And perhaps that's why all of you are so dear to me.”

“Just as you're dear to us.” Feuilly can feel Courfeyrac's heat, both from his arms and from his coat. It's uncomfortable—will become stifling soon—but for the moment he relishes it, feeling it seep deep into his body. It doesn't fill the jagged well of disappointment and anger—nothing save a true and just Republic will—but somehow it makes it more bearable.

One minute, perhaps two tick by, the two of them together in the flickering light of the streetlamps.

Then Feuilly sighs, standing slowly and shrugging out of Courfeyrac's jacket. He catches it before it can fall, turning to hand it to his friend. “Thank you for the loan, but I fear you've forgotten one very important thing.”

Courfeyrac frowns as he shrugs back into the jacket. “What might that be?”

“That it's summer, and an extra jacket plus all the heat that you generate is a bit much.” Feuilly smiles as he takes Courfeyrac by the arm, picking the chair up with his other hand.

“Ah, but you see...” Courfeyrac trails off, giving a sheepish grin. “No, it's too late and all my clever wordplay has gone into our essays over the last few days. Would you mind if I slept on it and told you something clever tomorrow?”

“Not at all.” Feuilly deposits the chair where it will be out of the way. “Though in all seriousness—”

“If the next words out of your mouth are going to be thanks, hold them.” Courfeyrac smiles. “You will do—have done—the same for me.”

“Any time it's needed.” The words are heartfelt, and Feuilly gives Courfeyrac's arm a gentle squeeze. “But for now...”

“Back to work.” Courfeyrac's usual good cheer shines out of his eyes, his smile, his voice. “Before Enjolras does all of it for us. I swear, that man needs no sleep and no food.”

“Perhaps he subsists on the heat of heaven.” Feuilly speaks gently, not wanting to cause offense.

“I think you're right on that. But for the moment, I think we could all subsist on a bit more.” Courfeyrac shifts their trajectory. “Let's finish the night out with food, friends, and...”

Feuilly suppresses a smile. “At least one of our party would suggest _fighting_.”

“Not right now.” Courfeyrac waves his free hand. “Food, friends, and... fantastic. We'll go with that.”

“It works.” Feuilly speaks quietly as they approach the kitchen.

Not everything is fantastic—many things are actually quite terrible right now—but they still have each other. They still have their convictions, and so long as they keep to them, Feuilly has no doubt that one day they will bask in the warm, bright, cleansing light of a true republic.

 


End file.
